Here lies the body of our Anna,
Done to death by a banana.
It wasn't the fruit that laid her low,
'Twas the skin of the thing that made her go.
Like poor Anna, it often isn't writing that kills writers; it's what comes along with it.
Yesterday I was trying to plan a book tour, composing letters (personalized, of course) to booksellers, librarians, festival vendors, and various places where we might rest our heads as we travel. At the same time I was working on a short story to respond to a call for submissions in a magazine. I mailed off a packet to my agent, who had asked for a proposal for three novels and a 50-page sample of book #1. In the midst of all that, I got an email from a woman who asked if I could send her a bibilography for an upcoming speaking engagement so they can give their audience an idea of what I'm going to cover, oh, and by the way, did I know my website was down?
I'm not complaining, really I'm not. But it does become clearer to me every day that writing is only a tiny part of writing. Writing is the fruity part, the part that's good, the part that keeps you alive. But the skin of the thing can keep you away from the fruit, can be hard to get rid of, and can cause you to slip and fall if you don't watch where you're going.